The Demon's Path
by thegreatfool
Summary: Every man has a story, a tale of the joys and tragedies that shape him. It is the purpose of this work to chronicle one such story, for greatness deserves to be known. Come then and let us explore the life of Zabuza, the Demon of the Hidden Mist.


Author's Note: Well I must say that this is quite a step up for me. Truth be told I have never written a full length story before and considering the sheer vastness of the project I have undertaken (a life story is no short work) it is needless to say that I am quite a little bit worried. All the same I will do my best to live up to the legend of Zabuza and present a story that I hope is worth the read. To put it bluntly I aim to cover Zabuza's life from the time he is born until that fateful day in The Land of Waves, but enough of my rambling for now. Enjoy the fic.

Disclamer: Naruto is the work Masashi Kishimoto. It is not mine. This is merely a fanfiction and as such it is not to be used for profit or gain of any kind. Let me repeat: It is not mine. Do not sue.

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"Honey?"

There are days which live in infamy. Days in which the heavens themselves bow to the crackles of the lightning and days where even that mighty king does too bow to the earth below and to the men who stride upon it. Days where bolts rain down from the sky to greet greatness.

"Honey…what's wrong?"

Such times visit not the land of men readily, nor when they come do even the wisest see them for what they are. But they are days which, long after their passing, will hang high on the pedestals of history. They are days which men not yet born will look back at with awe. They are days to be remembered but never seen till long after they have run their course. And on this day, as the cries of a babe too young yet to open his eyes spit the air, the lightning did bow.

"Please…please answer me. What's wrong?"

There stood a shack; its long thick walls streaked with moss and age, with windows long deprived of the power to reflect the sun, nor the arms to repel any entity, of flesh of spirit, which might take it upon itself to roam the woods outside. A shack nestled deeply in the woods which dotted the island of Sharuno, that backwater land on the very edge of a nation so aptly named for the waters which choked it from all sides. In that decrepit abode, from deep within the mists which encroached upon the island, time began to move.

"Please Momochi-san. Ishuri…she's dead sir."

The cries grew louder and the sobbing man, as if drawn by a force unseen to the naked eyes of man, turned towards its host. It is that great peculiarity of human misery, how it can draw the eye of any, no matter the state upon which they might be currently seized. Pain, love, anger, despair, they are but nuisances in the face of this gnawing, imploring curiosity. The soundest, most analytical mind is helpless against this force and so it is not truly out of the realm of the sensible for the man to gaze at such a sight. What could he do but look up at the small baby, all but hidden in his wife's still arms? How could one fault him for his captivation at the pathetic site; the child, so helpless, kicking and thrashing, even as the limbs which cradled him slowly cooled at the touch of the grave. Drawing the child up into his arms, so drawn in that he did not notice the sickly ease in which the arms forfeited their treasure, or the tears which cascaded down his own cheeks as he moved, he stared down at the little baby. The lightning boomed again.

"It's a boy Momochi-san."

Nodding absentmindedly the man did not even spare a glance at the speaker, so enthralled was he by the creature nestled within his arms. Its every move and squirm seemed like a great spectacle to the man; indeed it was a play in which any man of culture, so supposed the watcher, would gladly flock from miles abroad to see. The infant, its twists and turns growing sharper, more pronounced by the second, struck a small fist against the man's chest, landing barely with the force of a feather, not even a tap on the thick skin which covered his heart.

"Momochi-san… He needs a name Momochi-san."

He was silent for a moment more, but then as the second passed, a frightful change seemed to encompass the grieving man. His face contorted and as if by a sheer force of will that seemed to defy even the bounds of the human spirit, his eyes cleared, and there was the child. The child, not a scene of morbid amusement, but the child. Stricken, as though unable to cope with the full realization of what it was that he had been holding, the man roughly dropped it. Were it not for the quick hands of the midwife, much could have ended on that hard wooden floor that day.

"Please Momochi-san; you must be careful he's only a baby. He…"

"Let his father name him."

Lowering her eyes, the midwife could do not but stare at the floorboards, her face heating with her words, and her voice not but a whisper among the baby's cries. "You know we don't know where he is sir. Not even your wife knew and she…"

"SILENCE!!" roared the man, his eyes flashing with a wild light. Advancing on the rapidly retreating girl he kept his eyes trained on the babe all the while. "I WILL NOT HAVE YOU SPEAK OF MY WIFE IN SUCH A MATTER."

"Yes Momochi-san."

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something more, then shook his head and closed it, instead choosing to walk to the door.

"My sister would have wanted him to have one sir. He needs a name."

Stopping, his hand barely hovering over the doorknob, the man did not even look back.

"My child died along with my wife in child birth."

"Excuse me Mamochi-san…I don't understand."

"He died and was buried immediately. You only found that child a week later and brought him to me hoping that it might fill the place my own child had left. I agreed and took him in as my own."

"Momochi-san…"

"Do what you want with him in the meantime. I have business to attend to."

"Yes Momochi-san."

The door opened and as it did winds sharp as knives sliced into the small cabin. The midwife shivered and hugged the baby closer to her, but the man seemed to take no notice of it. He must have felt the chill for quite some time now despite the thick walls of the cabin; his face was pale as snow, so pale that it looked as if his blood had long followed his wife to the grave.

"And girl…"

"Yes Momochi-san."

With his final words came the lightning once more, filling the room with such a deafening boom that they were all but drowned out in the noise. But still they came through; those words heralded by the lightning and the man of snow.

"His name is Zabuza."


End file.
